FWAAAAP!!! POTATO POTATO POTATO POTATO! brupppp…. brupppp….
To the average redneck, these are the sounds of angels on high. To me, they are the farts of overly expensive and pathetically useless pipes. I hate Harley-Davidsons. I hate choppers. I hate faux-Harleys and RUB bikes. To put it bluntly, I hate Biketoberfest.
PUH-ta PUH-ta PUH-ta ta ta ta ta… FWAPP!! FWAP! potato potato potato
For the past five days, my sweet husband Patrick and I have been embedded in Daytona Beach, Florida – the World Center of Racing, the Birthplace of Spring Break, and right now, the highest concentration of redneck chrome in the known universe. As you may know, Patrick is racing motorcycles this weekend – and a lot of you, whom I refer to lovingly as “THE REST OF US” probably think a bike is a bike is a bike. Two wheels is two wheels? Right?
FWAAPP! BWWWAAAH… BWWWWAAAAH… burrrrgle burrrgle burrrrgle burrgle…
Wrong. At 2 o’clock in the morning when they’re revving their ridiculously underpowered engines outside your window, THEY ARE MENACES TO SOCIETY. Yesterday, we left the comfy confines of the timeshare for the … charming … and LOCALLY OWNED Aqua Terrace Motel. It was really a cute place, if you have a good sense of humor about these things. If it were in Scottsdale and were renovated, it would be the ultra-hip Valley Ho. But it’s in Daytona during Biketoberfest – and if you don’t already know how I feel about Biketoberfest, read on…

BRRRRRRUH BRUH BRUH… KA-PAH KA-PAH KA-PAH… bruh bruh… bbbbbrrrRRRUUUHHH! BRUPPPPP!
You know those movies where the tired couple pulls into an out-of-the-way, 60s-era motel on the side of the road – the kind whose doors face the sputtering neon sign in the deserted parking lot beside the oily black swimming pool? I’m thinking Pulp Fiction, 10 Little Indians, The Cooler. Inevitably, there’s an axe-murderer in the next room and a coin box beside the bed for “Soothing Motion.” You know the type. That’s where we stayed last night.
The folks at the front desk were kind and apologetic about the legion of so-called motorcycles clogging the motorcourt – the innkeepers were also gracious, stocking our room with complimentary toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, feminine hygiene products and Rolaids. Sadly, they did not include earplugs, firearms, a hacksaw and sleeping aids, because AT 2 O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING WHEN BILLY RAY MULLET-HEAD REVVED HIS ADDLED MOTOR WHILE BACKING INTO HIS PARKING SPACE OUTSIDE OUR DOOR, I could have unloaded a firearm on him, chopped his sunburned ass up, tied his underpowered piece of crap to what was left of his ankles, dumped him into the ocean, inserted my earplugs, popped my sleeping aids and GOTTEN A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP.
GUH-GUH-GUH-GUH….. gggggggg guh guh guh… ptttttthhhhp ptttttthhhhp … GUG GUG GUG gaaah
For “The Rest of Us” that don’t understand what I’m all worked up about, here’s all you need to know about Harleys, choppers, cruisers and their ilk and why they’re more like living in the flightpath of LAX than owning a real motorcycle:
1) You don’t have to idle your engine to back your bike up – unless you’re an asshole and you like to waste gas and make unnecessary farting noises. You can turn off the motor and back it up. It rolls. Go figure.
2) Loud pipes DO NOT EQUAL better performance. The louder the bike, the more the rider has unmet sexual performance needs for which he feels subconsciously necessary to compensate. If you put these piped-up Harleys on a dynamometer (a machine that measures horsepower), you would find that they have about as much power as a leaf-blower on Starbucks. Put it this way, Pat can go 180-plus miles per hour on the banks of Daytona International Speedway. Harleys, choppers, cruisers and their ilk can’t go on the banks of the speedway because they’ll tump over. I KID YOU NOT. Vehicles (two-wheeled and four) cannot travel under 70 mph on the fabled 31-degree banks or else they’ll slide down to the apron. And while, yes, Harleys / choppers / cruisers / their ilk can go 70 miles per hour, they can’t take advantage of the laws of physics and lean into the turns at Daytona without dragging their precious chromed-out pipes. Ergo, they tump over.
3) Precious is a Southern code-word for ugly. If any Southerner tells you your baby is PRECIOUS, slap them. They’re not your friend. If they say your sweater is precious, burn it. All Harleys / choppers / cruisers / their ilk are precious.
4) Harley Couture is an oxymoron. You can file it under the heading of “JUST BECAUSE IT FITS, DON’T MEAN YOU SHOULD WEAR IT!” That goes for T-shirts, jeans, chaps, leather bikinis, leather vests (with or WITHOUT shirts underneath) and tank tops. Any company that would sell flip-flops as “ride apparel” is run by morons. (Harley used to be owned by a company that also ran bowling alleys, go figure). If there is anything at all appealing about the way these “riders” dress, it’s this: If you want a strong incentive to lose weight and get healthy, come to Biketoberfest and check out these men WHO SHOULD BE WEARING LEATHER BIKINIS instead of sporting their sunburned man-boobs because they think it’s “cool” to ride their precious motorcycles SHIRTLESS.
THHHHHHRRRRRAPPP POP POP POP PAAAAAAHHHHH THRAP THRAP!!!! potato potato potato potato
5) Not only are their bikes loud, THEY’RE LOUD! I wonder why that is – could it be that they are shouting all the time over their useless pipes? I know I have an outside voice, but I sound like a shy librarian compared to these magna cums loudly graduates of the John Force School of Public Speaking. For those of you that don’t regularly follow non-NASCAR motorsports, John Force is an NHRA funny car drag racer who is physically incapable of speaking lower than a Howard Dean-decible scream. The difference between John Force and these yahoos? John Force is entertaining – AND HE GOES FAST, 330 MILES PER HOUR’S WORTH OF FAST. Billy Ray Mullet-head and his girlfriend Tammy Fay She-mullet are just outside-voiced drunks who don’t know better than to turn off their idling motorcycle before a night of tender love-making. (My God, I just realized that these people are also breeding legions of loud-mouthed, mullet-headed, shirtless KIDS)
WHEN WILL THE INSANITY END?
potato potato potato potato – bwwwwwwaaaap – guggle guggle guggle
The moral to this story, if you ask me how our trip to Biketoberfest went, put in your earplugs… FWAPPP! FWAPPP! FFFFFWWWWWWAAAAAAAPPPPPP!!!!! … and don’t even think about darkening my driveway with your Harley/chopper/cruiser/their ilk.